


Family Ties

by renn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renn/pseuds/renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solo invites Kuryakin and Dancer to share Christmas Eve dinner with his aunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family Ties

**Author's Note:**

> Written for periwinkle27 for the Down the Chimney Affair #6 (2009) over on LiveJournal. Prompts: confusion (sort of), aging, family

Two cabs pulled up in front of the high-rise apartment building at the same time. A slight, blond man in a dress coat and scarf burrowed out of one; a slim young redheaded woman in sparkly tights and shoes and an outrageously fake blue fur jacket slid out of the other one. They met in the doorway. "Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Kuryakin."  
  
"It gets curiouser and curiouser, Miss Dancer." He held the door open for her, and guided her to the elevator, nodding at the doorman with an air of familiarity as they passed his station.  
  
As they rose to the penthouse level, April asked, "Solo doesn't live _here_ does he?"  
  
"No, no, this is his aunt's building."  
  
"His aunt's?"  
  
"You sound surprised."  
  
She gave him a self-depreciating grin. "It's hard to imagine _anyone_ in Section II having relatives. Even with the Old Man being a grandfather and all...."  
  
"Not exactly a water-cooler topic, no." The elevator dinged; the doors opened. Illya offered April his arm and brought her across the small foyer to a nondescript apartment door. "And for the record, I have no idea why we're here."  
  
"Ooh, the expert of all things Solo in the dark for once?"  
  
"And where is _your_ partner this evening?"  
  
"Ah..." April blushed. "Not sure, actually."  
  
"Pot, saucepan..." Kuryakin rang the bell.  
  
"Kettle."  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Pot, kettle, black."  
  
"Same thing, really."  
  
"No, not really. I--" she heard the inside locks tumble. "I'll lecture you later."  
  
The door opened. Napoleon Solo stood on the other side, in tuxedo shirt, pants, and tie, and a dapper striped apron. "Welcome, welcome. Come on in!" He gave them both a look daring them to comment on his attire. "Glad you could make it!"  
  
"Thanks so much for inviting us!" April stood on tiptoes to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek, then dug out a small box of mints from her jacket. "Host gift?"  
  
"You're too kind." Solo glanced at the lid. "Frangos! I'm suitably impressed!"  
  
"Just don't eat them in one sitting," Kuryakin warned, entering in time to help April off with her jacket.  
  
"Let me just take your coats...." Solo popped the mints up on a closet shelf, then took his fellow agents' outerwear. Kuryakin wore a tux; April wore a spangly gold empire-waist minidress that complimented her coloring.  
  
"Nappy, do bring your friends in so I can meet them properly!" A frail but still commanding female voice called out from the bowels of the apartment.  
  
"Yes, Auntie, just hanging up their coats." Solo looked at his friends. "Look... it may be really weird this evening, okay? Just play along, and I'll explain everything later."  
  
"Of course," agreed Illya.  
  
"Sure thing," echoed April.  
  
Solo led them into the living room. Favoring a white-on-white scheme, the room's modern look took second place to the floor-to-ceiling windows letting in a spectacular view of Manhattan at nigh. Near the windows, a tiny, bespectacled old woman sat in a white leather barcalounger. She had on a black dress, a long strand of pearls, and a flowered shawl that provided the only real color in the room. On the table at her side rested a small brandy snifter still mostly filled. She smiled broadly upon seeing Illya and April. "Well, now, aren't you two well met? Let's not stand on ceremony! I am Nappy's aunt, you can call me Aunt Amy. And you're...?"  
  
"Illya Kuryakin, ma'am." Kuryakin took her hand and bowed over it, in the European fashion. "I work with Napoleon."  
  
"Oh, yes, yes, I've heard your name before, I think." Amy turned her gaze on April. "And you must work with these two, too, young lady, because if you were courting either of them, you would not be dressed as you are." Amy assessed April's appearance again, causing the agent to blush self-consciously. "Yes, you must be very young indeed, Miss...?"  
  
"April Dancer, and I'm 23."  
  
Amy nodded knowingly. "That would explain a lot dear. Pull up a seat, you two, it won't be long until dinner."  
  
"About 20 minutes, Auntie."  
  
"Then you have plenty of time to fetch these two drinkies."  
  
"Yes, Auntie." Solo ducked into the kitchen.  
  
"And don't take that condescending tone with me, young man, you're not 13, you know!"  Dancer suppressed a giggle; even Kuryakin had to work to not appear amused. Amy grinned at them both. "Young men! Really! You have to beat manners into them sometimes.... His grandfather was just as bad, growing up. Mummy yelled at him all the time to straighten up, be polite, not chew with his mouth open." Solo returned to the room with a shot glass of vodka and a cuba libre on a tray. As he offered the beverages, Amy added, "Posture, Thaddeus, posture."  
  
"Napoleon, Auntie."  
  
"That Corsican brat died before Grandmama was born, I don't know why you have to keep bringing him up."  
  
Solo sighed. "I'd better go back attending to dinner."  Giving his friends a shrug and a "what can you do?" look, he retreated behind the swinging kitchen door.  
  
Aunt Amy proved to be quite a chatter box. She regaled Illya and April with tales of her travels and her life, telling the stories with such panache that they forgave her any curious word choices or date inaccuracies. Solo popped in and out between kitchen and living room, making sure that drinks were kept refreshed and that the dining table was set properly. Finally, he announced, "As they say in all the best houses, 'Dinner is served.'"  
  
"Splendid!" Amy exclaimed. "Ian, would you help me to the table? I'm not as steady as I used to be...." She gave Illya a charming, nearly flirty smile.  
  
"Of course," the Russian agreed, electing not to correct her on his name. He wasn't too sure the correction would stick.  
  
"April, would you mind giving me a hand bringing the dishes out?"  
  
"Oh, sure, Napoleon." She followed him into the kitchen. The meal had been staged on a small table, all ready to go in elegant serving dishes, with the exception of the goose, which rested triumphantly on a bed of greens on top of a large cutting board. "You made this all yourself?"  
  
"Nyah, just reheated it. Aunt Amy has a woman who 'does' for her, and she prepped everything to go before she went to join her family for the holiday." He passed her two bowls. "Just put them in the middle of the table."  
  
"Sure." She took the food into the other room. Amy had already been seated at one end of the table; Illya poured red wine into four glasses. She placed the bowls on the table, and returned for more, nearly knocking into Napoleon and the goose on the way back in. Soon, all the food had been set out, and Napoleon settled at the other end of the table. Illya and April sat across from each other, with the Russian on Amy's right.  
  
Amy surveyed the table and clapped her hands together. "Splendid! Absolutely splendid! And _service à la française_ too. How I abhor _service à la russe!_ Bring on all the food at once, that's what I say!" She raised her wine glass. "And now, a toast! To happy times and places! And to family!"  
  
The four of them clinked glasses, then Solo settled down to the serious business of carving up the goose. They ate in compatible silence for the most part, limiting comments to the fine quality of the various dishes and inane chat about the weather and various holiday performances on and off t.v. Nevertheless, it took some time to consume the feast; by the time the persimmon pudding and vanilla ice cream came out, Amy was clearly flagging. She picked at her dessert, managing to finish only half of a very small portion. Finally she put her fork down and pushed the plate away. "Pardon me, youngsters, but I'm afraid I'm done in for tonight."  
  
Solo immediately stood, rounding the table to offer her an arm. "I'll just clean up, and then I'll go--"  
  
She patted his arm. "Nonsense, Nappy, you and your friends stay for the _digestif_ at least! You know me, once my head lands on the pillow, I'm fast asleep. If you could just help me reach that pillow, though...."  
  
"Of course." He conducted her into her bedroom, unzipped her dress, and waited patiently outside the bathroom as she performed her evening ablutions. Some time later, he piloted her to her bed, helped her get up into it, and tucked her in. She sleepily bade him good night, rolled over on her side, and promptly fell asleep. He studied her sleeping form for a moment, a fond but sad smile on his face, before creeping out of the room and easing the door shut behind him.  
  
Dancer and Kuryakin had already cleaned up. They had settled at opposite ends of the white leather settee, a slightly dusty bottle of port, three glasses, and a small plate of chocolates planted on the clear glass coffee table in front of them. "Ah, I'll pour," Illya said upon seeing his partner emerge.  
  
Solo sat in Amy's barcalounger and accepted the ruby beverage. He took a sip, then, sighing appreciatively, settled back into the chair.  
  
"Your aunt's delightful!" April said. "Although.... I'm thinking she's actually your _great_ aunt."  
  
"My maternal grandfather's younger sister. Only one of my family left, really."  
  
Illya contemplated the port while asking, "So why introduce us to her now?"  
  
The senior agent shrugged. "Every year she suggests I invite some of my friends over for Christmas Eve dinner. Every year I resist, because, really, there's no guarantee I'd be able to bring the same people over from year to year. I didn't want her to worry about me, or my friends. So I pawn her off by telling her I want to hog her all to myself. This year, though... " He shook his head. "This year seems different."  
  
"Is the dementia new?" Kuryakin wondered.  
  
"Illya!" April exclaimed, shocked.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You could be more tactful, you know."  
  
"I could, yes." His glare told her that he wouldn't, though.  
  
"The dementia's been there for several years, actually," Napoleon said, "It's gotten much worse in the past year. She had some kind of health 'incident' in the spring which seems to have accelerated things." He sipped the port. "There's so much _less_ of her...."  
  
"Like she's fading away," Illya concurred. "I saw it in my own grandmother, before she passed." He held a warning finger up to April. "And before _you_ say anything, yes, I had a grandmother once. I didn't spring forth fully grown from Stalin's forehead, despite rumors to the contrary."  
  
"Of course, you didn't, Illya, it's not like you're a god." She turned back to Solo. "Sorry about that. We seem to be in a bickering mood tonight."  
  
"I hadn't noticed." His raised eyebrow indicated otherwise. "In any case... since I'm not sure if she'll _have_ another Christmas after this one, I thought it would be best to indulge her. She loves being around other people, and she doesn't get out much these days. If at all." He chuckled at a memory. "It was quite a production getting her to the dentist last month."  
  
"Do you need us to come around again for Christmas dinner tomorrow night?" April asked.  
  
"No, no, we always go out and have Chinese for Christmas dinner. After that, though, well, hopefully her companion will be back on the 26th."  
  
"We have an assignment starting then," Illya threw in.  
  
"Oh." April thought about it a moment and offered, "I can stop in on the 26th, spend some time with her."  
  
"You wouldn't mind?"  
  
"Not at all. I enjoyed her stories tonight, and-- well, she reminded me of _my_ great aunt in a way."  
  
"Gone?"  
  
"Yes, up to Vermont with the rest of the family." April shook her head ruefully. "I could have gone, but I didn't want to get in another fight with Daddy about my 'career girl' tendencies. If he had his way, I'd already be making grandchildren with the son of his business partner."  
  
Illya commented, "At least your bickering tendencies seem to be universal."  
  
"Oh, and what about you, Illya? Do you have any family? Are you able to maintain any contact with them?"  
  
"The world is my family, my fellow agents my brothers... and you my bratty kid sister."  
  
"I love you, too, Mr. Kuryakin." She glanced at her watch. "Perhaps we'd better go? It's already after 10 p.m."  
  
She stood; the other agents hopped to their feet. "I'll escort you downstairs," Illya offered.  
  
"Perhaps we should wait for--?" April looked at Napoleon. The senior agent shook his head. "Then again, sounds good."  
  
"I'll get your coats." Solo exhumed their outerwear from the closet, and helped April on with her fuzzy jacket. "Thanks alot, both of you. It means a lot."  
  
"See you on the 26th, Napoleon." Illya guided April back to the elevator and down the stairs.  
  
As they waited for a taxi, April ventured, "So, Illya, what _are_ you going to do tomorrow?"  
  
He shrugged. "Don't know yet. You?"  
  
"Haven't decided either."  
  
"Well."  
  
"Well indeed."  
  
"We could always do something together."  
  
"We could, at that. I'll even cook, if you'd like."  
  
"Is it safe?"  
  
"Many people have eaten my cooking and gone on to leave perfectly normal lives." A taxi pulled up to the curb; Illya opened the door for her. "So, say 7 o'clock?"  
  
"7 o'clock." He made sure she was in properly, then shut the door and watched the cab pull away. His own taxi arrived almost immediately; he crawled in and, as the taxi made its way to Brooklyn Heights, he contemplated exactly what he had agreed to.


End file.
